


Obscure Topography

by montparnasse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Second War with Voldemort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4430711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montparnasse/pseuds/montparnasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Tonks realizes, coming at each other from awkward angles makes you stick, elbows and all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obscure Topography

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChocoChipBiscuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/gifts).



> For the lovely chocochipbiscuit, who really does know me too well. ♥ Did I lose control of your prompt or what.

The kettle is the only thing with even a semblance of practicality Fleur brought with her when Tonks offered up the velvet couch in her flat as impromptu Order-approved housing for freshly-scrubbed recruits, something she has regretted the way one often regrets good deeds made in clumsy haste over slightly too much wine and a charming cousin’s lovely eyes pleading at you to Do The Right Thing; which, in retrospect, was really less of a charitable suggestion on Sirius’s part and more of an underhanded plot to get Mundungus Fletcher’s dirty shoes out of his sitting room so he can walk around naked, or shag Lupin on the dining room table, if they haven’t already. A shame he’ll have to be killed in recompense for the mud stains on her velvet and the kettle that sings dirges—bloody _dirges_ —every time she wants a cup of English Breakfast.

Bad enough that she has to cook for an all-too-unhelpful audience spouting sulky-throaty Eeen-glish all the while; bad enough that there are enough lacy underthings strewn about that she now knows Fleur’s exact cup size and color preference, not that she’s _looking_ or anything, not that she _cares_. But no, the indignity of having to queue for her own bathroom while Fleur “Au Naturel” Delacour uses up her best special occasion bubble bath and waking up to find her own sleep-swollen eyes and splotchy pallor mirrored with immaculate hair and a bathrobe falling artfully open as if orchestrated from the heavens themselves just isn’t enough: Moody, in a fit of paranoid madness that involves a lot of disturbing mumbling and eye-swiveling, decides to send them on a job together. A team-building exercise. For camaraderie, or some other half-baked bullshit.

Which is how they end up in Southampton infiltrating a sprawling old estate while its owner is on holiday, because apparently even Death Eaters need a break their own horrific depravity every now and then; Tonks has just finished rifling through the drawers of a mahogany desk in the master bedroom and pocketing all her neatly-copied evidence when Fleur sits down at the very edge of the fairly enormous bed and uncrosses her legs, leaning back on the heels of her hands, and Tonks feels something like crosshairs settle over the hollow of her throat.

“We are done so _early_ ,” says Fleur, tilting her face up when Tonks twitches closer, and closer still, torn between the sheer idiotic absurdity of the situation and the low belly-thrill of something kinetic-electric pulling her heart up through her throat. “Surely they do not expect us back yet. Perhaps we could… take a nap.”

Toe to toe with Fleur, she stops, and tries not to think too hard about how the world is going to lurch off its axis if she just leans down a little farther, a little closer. “Fleur,” she says, feeling the moment stretch itself out on her dry lips, “you mean. You mean a, a _naked_ nap, right. If I’m not misunderstanding.”

Fleur rolls her eyes, loudly. “You _Eeen-glish_ ,” she mutters, and actually _snorts_ , and if Tonks didn’t know any better—she doesn’t, now that she thinks about it—she might think it sounds halfway fond. “Always ruining everything with your mouths.” And then she’s tugging Tonks down by the front of her cloak, hands up her shirt, shoving her down by the hips onto the downy-fluffy mattress, where they are loud and uncomplicated as they come at each other from oblique angles to make the bedsprings creak merrily for a while.

Later, much later, she’ll think that maybe that was the clincher: fucking on some buttoned-up pureblood’s immaculate green duvet and leaving the hem mussed just _so_.

Back home, with her mouth slightly sore and Fleur smoking roll-ups at her kitchen table, she puts the kettle on and pulls out two mugs, watching the spout stutter with steam in a prelude to some china-blue lament while she fumbles a cigarette between two fingers, thinking of semiconductors and chaos theory and the flex of Fleur’s thighs until the kettle makes a small, mummified noise like a death-groan, sawing through her already buzzing nerves.

“Not a word,” she says, unsure whether she means it for the kettle or for the jangle of laughter twining through the smoke behind her.

—

On first glance, Fleur is an almost violently beautiful woman with an accent like a stiletto dangling from curled toes and teeth sharp enough to tear through bone, as well as a bit of a twat. On second glance, Fleur is still a bit of a twat; thus, it probably stands to reason that she would get along with Sirius, but Tonks hadn’t quite expected to see her comparing fucking _tea notes_ with Remus Lupin in Number 12’s kitchen the morning after their two-woman raid, laughing at something he’s said—but not, Tonks thinks idiotically, snorting hideously with it the way she does for _her_ —and educating him on the proper brewing of Darjeeling, scoffing at the milk he insists on soiling it with. There’s a vague sense of apocalypse surrounding the whole muddled thing: Fleur’s clothes tangled with her own in the laundry like they belong there, the way Tonks’s veins seem to have re-wired sometime in the night. The rosebud-imprints of teeth at her collarbone and navel, all the things that turn to clay and shatter on her incisors before she can work out how to say them.

She can’t quite seem to find her footing with her now, if she ever could before, and this morning at the breakfast table it’s turning her into someone she truly hates: uptight, snippy, crooked on her feet, unable to find the right things to say. They skip around each other, or Tonks skips around Fleur, both of them stepping in the wrong time signature and Tonks doing her best not to mention it, leaving her to forage deep within herself for a new disguise to wear every time she feels the familiar heart-hammering rising in her ribs or a flush welling up in her blood; she drops the butter dish on her toast twice and sloshes orange juice everywhere when Sirius asks her to pass the pitcher and has to change the set of her cheekbones when Fleur brings her a towel to mop it up, brushing her hip against Tonks’s side with almost pornographic languor as she walks away.

“Have a good night?” Sirius asks her, and Tonks meets his eyes to find that they are, she thinks, sincere. But still—

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he says, but now there’s a crook to his mouth and a rainy ripple sparking deep in the backs of his eyes that tells her otherwise. He leans in close when he takes her plate. “We should start a club. For people shagging their houseguests stupid, I mean. We can be like a sewing circle except with alcohol and without, y’know, the oppressive straightness of it all.”

Something in the region of Tonks’s liver positively heaves; she grabs Sirius by the elbow as he makes to get up and sputters right into his ear, “ _How_ did you know?”

Sirius smiles at her, with rather more understanding and blunt sweetness than amusement hiding in the corners of his lips. “I’ve never seen anyone turn so thoroughly purple in my life, Tonks, and I’ve seen a few. Just—relax, would you, your shoulders’ll stick like that if they stay there. And, well,” he says, clapping her on the shoulder on his way up, “takes one to know one. You’re practically _vibrating_ over here.”

“Shut it. Your kidneys would be doing funny things too if you’d, if, y’know.”

“Just say ‘shagged,’ Tonks, we’re all adults here and Remus can’t hear to get all prune-y faced about it.”

She sighs, feeling her face de-purple slightly and chancing a glance backwards to make sure no one, indeed, can hear; the walls here have eyes and ears and, she’s beginning to suspect, a burgeoning sense of self. “Shagged. I shagged her. We haven’t talked about it and she’s been bloody _infuriating_ all morning and she’s doing that with her tongue on purpose and I’m going to _implode_ or, or turn into a fucking pudding or something if she doesn’t stop.”

“So talk to her,” says Sirius, master of excellent communication level-headed simplicity. “Got to be better than turning puce, right? I mean, my God, Tonks, just go on and scream it in the streets, why don’t you!”

He’s gone to wash up, laughing all the way, before she has the chance to either throw her arms around him or threaten to put treacle in his underwear, but after a moment she finds it a relief that he knows, that she’s _happy_ to have someone else to bang on to about it when the whole thing is so new and volatile and porcelain-thin, like a foal wobbling along on its new legs, unsure of how to navigate the wide open world or whether it even wants to be here at all. When Fleur and Remus bring over tea, and Fleur’s toes in their silk stockings decide to take a slow trip up Tonks’s ankle to the swell of her shin, Tonks turns magenta and upsets the marmalade jar; the table trembles, Tonks trembles, and the smile on Fleur’s face doesn’t falter even once.

—

There’s an announcer of some sort on the wireless while Tonks measures out tealeaves and puts the kettle on, a droning background noise like live wires, her spoon scraping the bottom of the sugar bowl in a delaying tactic that keeps her hands fluttering in birdwing motions so they don’t do anything catastrophic with the top buttons of Fleur’s blouse. In the sitting room, on the sofa, just after the kettle has finished the last off-kilter notes of its miserable hymn at being defiled with something as banal as Earl Grey, she perches at the opposite end of the couch from Fleur and hands her a pink teacup, feeling their fingers brush through the handle and trying not to think of all the ways this could end in grievous disaster or possibly a visit to St. Mungo’s if she keeps on knocking her head into things. But Tonks has never been a woman for tragedy or the tricky conjunctions of what-if; life is meant to be taken on the sear-point of present tense, and there’s never any cloud, after all, without its silver lining. She aims a neat corkscrew at the bookshelf with her wand, and the wireless goes silent.

“Your music,” says Fleur, turning to her from the other end of the couch, “it is _horrible_.”

It comes out as _’horr-eeble_ , the way it always does. Tonks smiles at her over the rim of her teacup. “Rather that than your bloody kettle making me feel like I’m murdering it every time I want a cup of tea. It acts like no one’s ever made it _do_ anything before.”

“If you would ask it what it wants to make, you would have no problem,” Fleur scoffs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the universe.

“Fine excuse to treat me like I’m disemboweling the thing through its spout,” she says. Fleur’s skirt settles in yellow sun-waves over her knees, freckled slightly with the untiring summer; Tonks scalds the roof of her mouth and swears. “Anyway you can’t reason with it, it gets all argumentative and tries to burn your fingertips off when you pour, or else it starts in with _Ave Maria_ every time you get the milk out. It’s completely barking.”

Fleur blows onto her tea. “No. _You_ are barking.” She pauses, considering the shocking, unbearable whiff of English-ness that’s just come out of her very own mouth. “This is your fault. I never talked like this before, it is _vile_. Like catching a flu.”

“You could always find another place. It’s been a month.”

“I like the view from here.”

“What, right into someone else’s bedroom?” The row of mews houses across the street make a nice sight with their neglected flowerboxes and ivy, obscuring just about everything else; she sometimes has coffee with the Muggle woman on the corner in her house with its perfect geometric angles and its solitary, silent toaster. “You could get that most anywhere, I’d think.”

A long, shuddering sigh. “Are you always so dense, or is it something in the water? Were you raised this way? Your head is like, like _bricks_.”

“Excuse you. My mum says I’m very smart and very _lovely_ ,” she drawls in her best West Midlands accent, by now well used to Fleur’s blunt edges and her awkward words alike, those things that fall out of her mouth like ungainly weeds and refuse to bloom. And because she’s used to it, and because she’s found that she likes coaxing the consonants out of her vowel-rich lips, and—maybe strangest of all—she’s discovered that she loves every serrated syllable, Tonks puts her tea down on a chipped coaster with a whimsical list of the West Country’s medicinal plants and kisses Fleur where her words come from, tasting Earl Grey and sultry-smoky tobacco in the places where their sentences get stuck.

“I’m a bloody fine view, aren’t I,” says Tonks, a little breathlessly, grinning down at where Fleur is sprawled beneath her, wine-dark cheeks and knifepoint teeth and her skirt rucked up to her hips, cold knuckles dragging a chord up Tonks’s belly button and between her ribs to her breasts, where the tiny pink bow of her bra meets dead center and she feels every brush of fingers shivering up-up-up in a crescendo on her spine.

Their eyes flicker shut and then open again, teeth to teeth until both of them let out a laughing breath and slot together softly like the summer-lazy music of the evening outside the sitting room window. “Your hair is a mess,” says Fleur, pulling at a handful of short violet fringe with her other hand, “and you are insufferable.”

“You’d know better than me, right,” she laughs, and then gasps when Fleur shifts her knee between her legs and grinds down _hard_. “Fuck. _Fuck_ , fuck fuck fuck.”

“Oh. How apt,” Fleur mutters. Tonks tries to untangle herself but seems inextricably glued; she pushes up on her elbows only to sink down, dreamily, again and again.

“Are you trying to impress me?” asks Fleur, squeezing her soft and rather formless biceps. “Is this what an, an _an-eurysm_ looks like?” 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says, biting it into Fleur’s lips until she digs her fingernails into her skin, red half-moon indents, tokens of belonging. “My press-up record is six. And dinner was involved afterwards.”

The room jolts slightly; Fleur pulls her hand out of Tonks’s shirt and shoves her backwards, and then reaches down to grab her by the belt-loops and tug her up in a complicated maneuver that suggests she’s done it several times before, yanking her towards the hallway. She only barks her shins on the coffee table once along the way, which means, in the curious new diction of all things _them_ , a profound and immeasurable progress.

The tea goes cold, and colder. Fleur puts all her lacy underthings in an expandable lingerie chest they find at a secondhand shop and stops sleeping on the couch.

—

August blurs into September until the dregs of summer fan out into a burnt autumn, where they shake out the frost of the days every morning and wind scarves around their necks to keep November’s fingers out of their clothes, Earl Grey and _Ave Maria_ every morning and mulled cider with lengthy funeral marches every night. Neither one of them is much for cooking, or for learning the corresponding spells or Muggle techniques that might result in a full breakfast on some late-blooming Sunday morning, so they end up going out to magic and Muggle places alike, sitting at the back of dark theaters afterwards or getting takeout and coming home with a curry and a blue chill wrapped around their lips; Fleur chatters about the wintery seas at home and matches Tonks swear for swear and “wotcher” for “wotcher” now, occasionally pausing with a bit of fried fish or cheese pasty in hand to compliment the finer, greasier parts of English cuisine and then complain in the next breath about her overtaxed arteries. “It will turn to pudding in my veins,” she says, biting it off at the end of a salty chip, “it is a good thing we will at least die together, I suppose.”

“Doubt it. My veins are a little sturdier than yours, old girl,” says Tonks, and kisses the twist of her mouth.

Moody has passed on to her all jobs that require Fleur to have a partner, which they both accept with the enthusiasm of two people who know they’re going to be shagging in a great many inns across fair England’s cloudy coastlines. They share mornings, and nights, and crossword clues. They share meals and teatimes and space at the bathroom mirror, beds and breath and escape routes stashed away at the throats of back alleys and forests, sometimes fighting to make it out alive. Sometimes, they have dinner at Number 12 with Sirius and Remus, because Tonks figures they really ought to stick together, bent as they all are, taking to each other like seabirds take to the wind; after, they come back home, wine-warm, London streaking by in a liquid rush while they fumble up the stairs groping with keys and clothes until they collapse, laughing silently, against the sitting room wall in near-darkness, their hands and mouths sliding together to seal their laughter into each other.

“You are completely _pissed_ ,” Tonks whispers through the smile twitching onto her lips, right up against Fleur’s mouth.

“And you have no room—” here, a kiss, a white-sharp flash of teeth, “—to criticize. You fell into the wall. Because you are so _sober_ , I presume.”

They laugh, wonderingly, fingers twined together in a tight cradle at Fleur’s hip. And then Tonks lunges drunkenly in and kisses an invective into her mouth.

Sometimes, when she’s either very drunk or feeling particularly soppy, she feels like she can slow time itself down to a sluggish, tipsy trickle, where nothing else matters but her own beating heart and the turn of the world, or—here, now—Fleur’s skin and hips beneath her skin and hips, moving to a rhythm of their own, no time like what your body keeps in its hollows and curves. The brush of a thigh takes hours; the glide of fingers riding over ribs, and she loses track of the day. War and worry and shattered nerves are nothing next to this, meaningless without the strange, humorous patchwork of two hearts beating out of tune, where the radius of the whole world condenses down to the bed and they’re the only women alive in London for a while.

Fleur, her spine an arch under Tonks’s mouth, grabs a fistful of bubblegum hair and tugs her head back from her collarbone, where she’s left a wet, budlike imprint of lips and teeth. Tonks stares. “Stop _thinking_ ,” says Fleur, curling a leg around her and dragging the heel of her foot along the small of Tonks’s back, the other knee sliding against her ribs. “I can hear the English-ness through your skull. It is like elephants.”

“Liar. You’re no Legilimens or you’d know it’s a herd of very _intelligent_ elephants with loads of complex thinkings going on.” She rocks her thigh into Fleur, slow and hard between her legs before she leans down again, pulled in with Fleur’s fingers climbing up the laddered notches of her spine, and slides her middle finger in nonsense patterns over Fleur’s clit and then sliding lower, pressing inside. “Right at the moment they’re very concerned with getting you off.”

“That is the worst thing you have ever said,” says Fleur, and then gasps softly at the withdrawal of Tonks’s finger. “But I like your strange thoughts. Odd thoughts.”

“I’ve never had an odd thought in my life, you nutter,” says Tonks, one hand drawing lacy patterns on Fleur’s ribs, the other holding her down by the hip. “But if you must know,” she adds from Fleur’s chest, licking around the swell of her breast and then the nipple closest to her heart, feeling her tense in her mouth, feeling her heartbeat surge. “You _really_ want to know?”

“Yes,” Fleur gasps, breathless and wanting, her fingers flexing on Tonks’s shoulders, her hips rhythmic against her hand. “Dora—oh—go _on_ , just tell me _Tell_ me.”

She cranes her neck up again to look down at Fleur, her flushed cheeks, her hostile blue eyes. “For one thing,” she says, and kisses her so hard their teeth snap together, filthy-slick, flicking her tongue between her lips and swallowing the moan that comes when she moves her fingers faster over Fleur’s clit, her mouth twilight-sweet still with the memory of dessert wine. “And for another—” this, punctuated with a slip of her body, down between Fleur’s breasts to lick into her navel, again, again, rubber-band vibrations humming a staccato on her tongue, “and _another_ ,” she says at last, leaning in between her thighs and dragging her tongue over Fleur’s clit, out of time with the two fingers thrusting inside her, watching Fleur’s mouth fall open with a frenetic sort of hunger, laughing against her with every dirty word until her fingers clench in Tonks’s hair and she comes: a long, low groan, unraveling, her thighs tensing against Tonks’s cheeks.

And there’s barely a spare moment to catch her breath before Fleur is grabbing her around the waist and slamming her down onto her back, their bodies slotting together like glass tumblers and a hand between her legs making her gasp until the tension reels tight inside her and she comes, a sweet rush-and-dissolve all through her body to her toes, her hips jerking up into Fleur’s hand. Her breath steadies and smooths again under Fleur’s mouth, still pressed to the seizing muscles of her lower belly, grinning, grinning.

“See,” she says, running her hand over the back of Fleur’s neck, feeling her lean into it, slow and presumptuous. The lamplight coming in from the gap in the curtain makes everything lonely, languid blue, an echo of sweetness. “Fucking _brilliant_ , aren’t I. It’s just so, y’know, tragique for you, always having to keep up with my genius—”

“Ridiculous,” Fleur mutters, and kisses her. Tonks isn’t so sure she’s ever been so close to a smile every time she kisses someone than she is with Fleur.

It occurs to her, too, that she can be just about anyone with Fleur, and it won’t matter, because Fleur is only ever going to want her for exactly who she is. She looks at Fleur, the knife’s-edge length of her, her curves, her angles, the moles scattered onto her back, the pale stretch marks at her hips, and thinks of how beautiful her big, bony feet look next to Fleur’s, how her stubby fingers chewed-up nails make a perfect match for Fleur’s long, manicured hands; she could be anyone at all, screw her nose up into a beak or grow Catharine Deneuve hair or give herself tits the size of cantaloupes, and none of it would matter to Fleur at all as long as she looked at her the same way, and complained about the tea kettle at least twice a day, and tripped over the sitting room rug, kissed her over the dishes, read her the crossword clues every morning, ate the edges of her sandwiches first—all those innumerable signatures of a person, the miraculous machinery of yourself that becomes identifiable over time, like a certain scent or a cough, a poem or a song always stuck in your head, long-held and well-loved.

She presses her nose, cold and upturned into a pig’s snout, against Fleur’s shoulder and watches her look up and open her eyes, laughing, kissing it.

Tonks feels that this calls for some sort of celebration; so, she stumbles into the kitchen and puts on the kettle.

—

The year, beginning:

A new set of keys strung on a ring Fleur keeps in her pocket, and two sets of shoes stacked up together at the door—boots with electric blue laces, quiet grey flats with a bow on the side—every evening. Lurid headlines in the _Prophet_ spelled to read like florid fantasy instead, read aloud over breakfast in between the crossword. Cooking disasters, and too much takeout, and sultry, June-sweet wine. Toast and tea in bed. Worry and relief, arguments and lung-fuls of reconciliation, vivid and vague by turns. Order jobs and patrols all across the country, some disastrous, some hard-won. Sunday dinners with Sirius and usually Remus too, dashing through the crossings on the way home with cigarettes lit between their lips and their wands tucked up their coat-sleeves. Good mornings and good nights. New verbs. Darjeeling with three sugars and French dirges. Two teacups, two toothbrushes in the bathroom. The left side of the bed.

Taken together, she supposes it means she’s in love in the adult, quiet way people sometimes talk about, the sort that glows without being blinding. London recovering and amazed after the rain, rather than during the storm; a rhythm that sings without being deafening.

They kiss goodnight before shutting off the light every night, and as it turns out they both kick in their sleep and cancel each other out.

—

“How is it,” asks Tonks, pulling two teacups out of the cabinet, “that you’ve been here for yonks and neither of us has had the sense to buy a decent kettle?”

“This _is_ a decent kettle. It is an heirloom. And it isn’t going anywhere.” Fleur, peeling off her coat and scarf in the kitchen, both of them just back from work and dressed too heavily for the advent of spring with its sudden green sweetness and balmy-blue skies. “You have simply never learned to make a proper cup of tea, that is all.”

“It’s a right arse, is what it is.” She opens up the tin of Darjeeling without having to ask; Fleur hands her the tin of chocolate biscuits and two saucers in tandem, also without having to ask. “No funny stuff, you hear me?”

“No.”

“Wasn’t talking to you, mon petite cream puff,” she says brightly. When the water finally boils, she pours it into the two waiting cups and, on a lark inspired by the open window and the daffodil shoots coming up like promises, opts for honey instead of sugar, no milk, and is summarily treated to a fairly stunning rendition of the “Hallelujah” chorus from Handel’s _Messiah_.

By the time it’s finished its last notes, Fleur is eyeing her meaningfully over the rim of her cup, and Tonks, with all the composure due to, in no particular order, a Hufflepuff, an Auror, and a woman with three left feet, drops the tin of Darjeeling all over the floor and sloshes hot tea onto her jeans.

“I told you so,” says Fleur, dabbing at Tonks’s knee with a tea towel, staring fondly at her snobby, priggish heirloom. “Haven’t I told you that you ruin your tea? Hmm? Yes.” She flicks her wand at the tealeaves scattered across the tile and hands Tonks the tin, neat as anything. “I was _right_. Say it.”

“Oh, go fall off something huge. Both of you.” Inside her teacup, she can see her own reflection, pink and thrilled and with a bit of tea still dripping off her chin; she smiles. “I like milk in my tea.”

“And I like depressing dirges,” says Fleur, kissing the honey-sticky tea off her lips, tugging her closer by the belt-loops. “It evens out, yes? I am co-ord-inated enough for both of us, and you are bright and clumsy enough. Like a magpie.”

“Do shut up,” says Tonks, and shoves a chocolate biscuit into Fleur’s mouth, which she seems to be expecting. “There you go. Chocolate. Now will you keep me?”

Fleur kisses her and makes sure to get crumbs all over her face, which is rather all right; Tonks was expecting that, too. “That is the plan,” she says.

Someone knocks over the salt shaker. Someone crushes the carton of cigarettes in Tonks’s pocket. Someone laughs loudly, and Tonks has to bite Fleur’s throat to taste it between her teeth; for a fleeting instant, she has the sense of a passenger, as if she’s watching the whole thing from outside of herself, another version of them in some crooked, distant universe.

Probably, wartime makes you feel that way, sometimes, but Tonks likes to think that this is all it really takes, that this is all that really matters in the end: a look, or a touch, a bright glass gleam of sunlight slanting off of Fleur’s eyes in the kitchen, tea with dusty lamentations and hands at her hips after work. Maybe Fleur’s fingers curled around her wrist change everything. Maybe this lopsided gravity of theirs is going to take them a thousand, thousand miles away.

And if she’s right, then maybe this is what saves them all.


End file.
